


The Last Reinenbache Fall

by rhyme_n_reason



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Ghost Sherlock, John Can't Handle, M/M, Sad, Sad John, Sherlock's dead, aftermath of Sherlock jumping to his death, like for real, little ball of depression, not coming back, or is John just going crazy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhyme_n_reason/pseuds/rhyme_n_reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock actually came to an unfortunate end in the Reinenbach Falls ep and John is being haunted by his old friend, which isn’t so bad. </p>
<p>CAUTION: Sad.<br/>See that? I even warned you, so grab the tissues because this is filled with fluff and sadness and then I Tarantino’d this bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Reinenbache Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hint: Pay attention to the dates. It's important.

{16th of July, 2012, 221B Baker St.}

Mrs. Hudson works her way across the achingly empty flat, tossing bottle after bottle of cheap liquor into a garbage bag. The fairy chimes of thick glass knocking together do little to budge a certain doctor from his death like sleep on the couch.

Deeply set worry lines run like scars across her face. For the first time in her life the resilient woman is coming to terms with how much at a loss she is to help.

John was drinking himself into comas and when the bottle ran dry his painful wailing filtered through the vents like a constant reminder of their loss. Every time he is at it, it breaks Mrs. Hudson’s heart and no amount of tea, roasts, or sweets can heal what had been so thoroughly broken in John Watson. All she can do is what she had always done for her surrogate boys. Cook, clean, and care.

* * *

 

The sun was dipping low on the horizon, plunging the small flat in bright hues of orange and red, a cheerful change from the usual dismal grey, something that John was not ready to face. The small doctor turned to his side, groaning in pain at his stiff body and even stiffer leg.

It seemed to have been getting worse with each passing week, progressing to the point where his old cane made regular appearances more often than not. He knew why it had returned, everyone that came to visit knew why it dripped from his hand.

Black emotions roiled in his stomach, making the thin bile there coat the back of his tongue, if he had anything in his stomach at all, he was sure it would have been painting the floor by now.

John snagged a bottle he had hidden beneath the cushions, taking a swig before angrily throwing it against the wall when he realized it was empty. Disdainfully he watched the brown glass shatter into a million pieces and rain down. He looked up to the mocking smile spray painted above him for the thousandth time and felt the anguish ripping through his heart. But it was better this way, better to live like this than sleep in his own bed upstairs. He had made the mistake all too often in the weeks following the detective’s death, dashing down the stairs in a hurry thinking it had all been a nightmare only to fall to the floor in agony realizing the truth in Sherlock’s bedroom.

A draft filters through the window that had been closed when he was asleep, carrying Sherlock’s blunt words with a deep chill.

On some deep level John knew that it was improbable and he was starting to crack but when he listened to the honeyed charcoal voice it didn’t hurt so much. The soft tone called out to him over and over until it blurred into the background of his mind, settling into fuzzy acceptance.

Loud banging drags John from his numb thoughts, the sudden realization that the familiar voice calling his name wasn’t Sherlock felt like a vice trying to crush his very being out of existence.

It was almost impossible but he eventually pulled himself free from the stiff leather that groaned just as loudly as him.

The window showed a half sized Inspector Lestrade using all of his strength to beckon John from hiding.

“I know you’re in there, you haven’t left in days! The whole force is worried about ya!”  

He wasn’t surprised Lestrade knew. He had seen the unmarked car. The only thing that made the situation worse was knowing how much everyone else had seen him fall apart.

The yelling outside drifted into sidewalk noise as Mrs. Hudson handled the visitor, apologizing profusely before sending the irate Inspector on his way. He would be back, he always was. Some days he wasn’t stopped at the door. Some days John had the courage to let his guests in. Today was not one of those days.

* * *

 

{17th of July, 221B Baker St.}

Light rain ghosted the window, tapping out a slow rhythm that went well with the dizzying chocolate voice melting over the residual silence.  It was easy to convince himself that Sherlock was in the other room, mumbling to himself about his experiments, the hard part was remembering it wasn’t real.

John stilled his fingers, only barely registering that they had once again been lavishing affection upon the Stradivarius. It was the one thing of Sherlock’s that he allowed himself to touch, keeping it free of dust and well out of harm’s way.  A somber tune was plucked from the strings that matched the tone of his flickering existence.

A sore thought hit John harder than he cared to admit. “I guess we both miss him huh?” The strings answered back as the rosined bow slid delicately across. No matter what he tried the instrument rejected his mediocre fiddle skills. Only Sherlock’s talented hands could pluck such beautiful skips of sound from the expensive violin.

Carmel beratement had John sullenly putting the precious wooden thing back into its case.

The voice didn’t stop. It nagged at his consciousness, pulling at the threads until John couldn’t ignore it.

“GO AWAY!!!” Hands tore at rapidly greying blond. 

The voice turned salty sweet as if wishing to calm the spiraling doctor and only resulted in more accusatory yelling.

A gentle knock sounded at the door and John struggled to get hold of his fraying thoughts to convince her everything was fine.

The voice was back again whispering his name like brushing fabric.

John let go. He always did in the end, when the wanting became too much. He let himself drown in it.

There he was, clear as day. Annoying and sulking.

John always avoided it; could only let go so much before he feared it would swallow him up whole.

It called to him again and the doctor turned around busying himself with the process of tea.

“ I’m so bored.”

As long as he could ignore it John would be fine. No one had to know.

“I need a case. Something interesting. You should have at least heard out what Lestrade had to say.  He probably has loads of cases piling up on his desk by now.”

Sherlock lounged on the couch, long limbs stretching out in odd directions. He knew John could hear him, but how much he didn’t know.

The kettle screamed by the time John could trust himself with boiling objects and not hurt himself. The tea would go cold. It always did. It was the act of making it that he needed. A ritual to get back some sense of normality that he was rapidly losing.

“I could help John. It could never be like it was before. If you could just let me help, to convince you that I’m really here. We could go back to working on cases. Please John. I need you. I’ve always needed you.”

John sobbed. His body breaking into a thousand pieces as his heart broke.

“What can I do to convince you I’m really here? That I exist?”

John shook with the effort of trying to glue himself back together. It was a long time before he answered. “Why? Why did you end it?”

Sherlock looked as if it was his idea of Christmas. “I have waited so long John! So long for you to acknowledge me!”

Another sob tried to bubble up marring John’s words. “ T-Tell me!”

Delight splayed across Sherlock’s features as he ran up to grab hold of the small doctor, faltering as his fingers went right through him. Watson jumped at the icy static that spread from the contact.

“You! I did it for you John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Moriarty had assassins on all of you. It was the only way to save everyone, to save you. If I only had more time I could have solved it. Could have come back. To you.”  

The cup shattered, scalding tea spilling over his hand, the pain washing away the image before him. John wouldn’t give in to madness so easily, no matter how tempting it was.

* * *

 

{18th of July, 221B Baker St.}

He had thought all night. There was no way John could be sure his brain wasn’t tricking him. There was only one true way he could know for sure.

Newspapers littered the ground from one end of the flat to the other. Sherlock drifted from one to the other, reading what he could and found a few interesting prospects. The detective muttered as he read, scoffing at some and slinging insults at others while John sat brooding in his chair.

“Find something soon or I’m calling this whole thing off.”  

Sherlock fumbled across the papers, feeling the leads and quickly picking up on the most interesting one he had come across. “This one here. 87% sure that it was the neighbor. I would have to see the file and investigate to be 100% positive, but seeing as you are unwilling to look mildly unhinged in front of others you will just have to forgo the last 13 percentage points on this.”

He looked absolutely smug, making John hate him just an iota more than he already did. However his phone was already out and dialing up Lestrade.

“I swear if you are just a figment of my imagination and you get me thrown in the looni-Lestrade hello…um yes. Sorry to call on such…no nothing is wrong… not in the usual sense…nothing. I did have something I wanted to ask you. I have been trying to keep busy. Not to keep my mind off anything just following the news that sort of bit. Well there’s this murder. The one with-Hang on…” John peaked around Holmes’s shoes, which even in dead were annoyingly expensive looking. “Justin Went… yes. I was looking it over and was wondering if you had gotten any headway on it…. The neighbor? Oh yeah. I had some suspicions about him too, just thought… nevermind. Thanks for…just thanks…..I’ll try.. Goodbye Inspector… Yes I know Greg.”

Roiling black emotions fought like demons for dominance inside of him. Hands shaking all he could do was stand there while Sherlock looked haughty and conceited. “If you had bothered to listen to me in the first place we could have had this situation resolved months ago. But no, you had to lay about like a sniveling imbecile for the better part of my death. ”

If Sherlock could have felt the fist sailing through his face he would have a broken nose. “As much as you might believe I deserved that, you only have yourself to blame.”

 “NO! DON’T DO THAT TO ME! DON’T MAKE THIS MY-…AHHH!” He shook with rage, tears threatening to bubble over but thankfully for his pride they didn’t.  “You are a right prick!” John wanted to beat the man bloody but had to settle for hurling as many insults as he could, even going so low as to insult the detective’s manhood as well as settle upon a few touchy subjects. He wanted below the belt, it was the only way he could relieve some of the pain and grief he had been holding onto too long without resolve.

“Are you quite done? This is starting to become tedious.”

Yeah he was fucking done. Sherlock’s image warped and flickered as John stormed out; his voice however still rung after him like black diamonds.

“Tantrum all you want, you can’t escape... I’ll be here for eternity.”

* * *

 

{19th of July, 221B Baker St.}

Things could never be simultaneously more normal yet never further from it.

“Next.” 

John groaned as he stood, moving about in straight lines as he flipped a dozen pages to a dozen texts Sherlock was busy reading. All scientific texts that were drier than the butter-less toast he was currently eating.

“John I need-“

“No, I draw the line at experiments; I’m not traipsing down to Bart’s and stealing corpse bits.”

“But I need to know-”

“No.”

“Ok blood? You can at least spare me a half pint of it.”

An exasperated sigh showed just how much he didn’t want to. But eventually the litany of near begging wore John down.

“Arghhh! Fine. What do you need it for?”

Long fingers flitted through the air as if the mere notion of his reasoning should have been blatantly obvious. It made John immediately want to deny the man, but obligation had his feet stuck fast.

“There was this experiment I have wanted to observe. It’s to see how other bodily fluids will affect the clotting process. I have this theory that urine should hasten the process exponentially.”

“Let me guess, I’ll be the one supplying the piss wont I? Well you can just bugger off!” Obscene gestures punctuated his words as he stormed out.Grey eyes pursued him, but nothing else.

* * *

 

{20th of July, 221B Baker St.}

Icy claws ripped through John’s chest, dragging him from calming darkness into a fresh horrific hell. The offending creature hovering by his bed looking positively delighted.

“Come John! The game is on.”

The covers whispered warmth and comfort, more than enough for John to consider the offer.

“If its bloody well Christmas, then I better get dressed.” It was torture leaving, but he was just as much starved for a case as Sherlock was.

* * *

 

Wind whipped around, tearing through John’s beloved grey sweater as if it was tissue paper.

Red and blue flashed dismally, distracting in the waning light. Inconspicuous loitering had always been one of his special skills, too small and plain for anyone to notice right away. It had been nearly a half hour till a set of brown eyes and matching curls picked his face out from the crowd.

“John!” Donovan made a beeline to his location, only stopping when yellow police tape impeded her path.

“What are you doing here?” Her words sounded accusatory and sharp. The look she bored into him stunk of pity; the sting of which festering into a deep ache.

He didn’t know himself why he was there. “I just happened by.” **Lie.**

It tasted like he had sampled all 243 samples of Sherlock’s tobacco ashes, but it was more believable than the truth.

Grating charcoal words urged the doctor to get involved. To ask about the case, anything that would lead to desperately needed details.

Watson scrambled his brain cells, all but the few that had succumbed to his successful attempts at alcohol poisoning. “Has the medical examiner shown up yet? If not, maybe you could use an expert opinion.” He instantly felt the denial before it even left Donovan’s lips. “I’m sorry John. But without…” She didn’t say it, but they both knew. 

Who they needed was Sherlock. John Watson was useless on his own, just an ex- military doctor. A man who didn’t possess genius; only ‘Inspire it in others’.

“I’m sorry I pushed. Just forget you even saw me.” It was impossible to accept. But he was just a civilian now. He had no right to inquire after crime scenes.

Wind pulled John from her view, his small stature easily obscured by the sea of curious onlookers. Harsh words begged John to go back, berating him for giving up so easily. Facts whirled unheard in a hailstorm of insults directed at the sergeant. It was almost normal enough to bring a smile to John’s face.

“We’ll try again. I’ll get better.” _At lying to my friends_. 

* * *

 

{21st of July, 221B Baker St.}

A Sherlock brand tantrum was bad enough, but a ghost version was significantly worse.

“If you don’t shut up soon, I’m calling a professional! Holy water, Priest, the whole nine yards.”

“For all you know it would do you absolutely no good.”

“It might. Don’t tempt me. And are you really willing to take that chance?”

The lights dimly flickered as Sherlock contemplated the implication. From what he knew of his friend, John wouldn’t consciously risk destroying his lingering consciousness. But John was still convinced Sherlock’s ghost was haunting his mind not their flat. It was better not to risk the aging doctor’s patience over something so trivial.

“Fine.” Sherlock spat the word as if it had personally questioned his mother’s virtue. “If you won’t break into the crime scene then at least steal me the file.”

A compromise from Sherlock was scarcer than royal jelly, a delicious treat that John would have been crazy to refuse.

Malcontent roiled under Watson’s skin, contaminating the small doctor’s unassuming frame. As much as he didn’t want to resort to criminal measures, John was relatively exited to be back in the thick of it all. He hungered for the constant danger and thrill as if it was heroin, and Sherlock was his sadistic dealer.

John flew out the door, his shadow of a detective not far behind.

* * *

 

London’s finest writhed and buzzed; A single mass of bodies coexisting in a space simultaneously too cramped yet inexplicably daunting to the ex-army doctor. It reminded him of bloody and broken men and of the workers trying to stitch them back together. Ringing melded with agony tinged screams, but it was the sound of a familiar voice calling his name that chased the nightmare from his eyes. 

A kind face with too much grey greeted John like a breath of fresh air.

“Greg.”

Worry had etched deep lines across the inspector’s face. He looked ten years older than last time John had seen him up close. It made what he was about to do a hundred times worse as splinters of guilt tore through vital organs.

He didn’t even need to ask, already being ushered into an office tucked into a place of esteem and cluttered with the paperwork to prove it.

Stacks of files taller than the office regulation coffee cups littering his desk, domineered over the small space.

It was one thing to berate himself for being useless but another to see it for himself. The yard was drowning in unsolved cases. There was a reason why Sherlock’s verbal lashings and reckless behavior were tolerated as much as it was. They **needed** **him** to solve cases. John Watson was still just a ‘sidekick’. Important, but not who the department needed. Not who anyone needs.

“John!”

“Sorry. I… must have spaced out.”

“Are you alright? Please tell me you are just here for a visit and that I don’t have to worry about you ending up in handcuffs.”

A snide remark had him nearly slipping, Sherlock’s snide remarks and memories of days spent handcuffed to their radiator until he learned to pick his way free brought a reluctant smile to his face.

Satin words at his ear reminded John of his purpose while awkward noises preceded any semblance of words trying to leave his mouth. “I um… could I bother you for a cup?”

“Yeah, sure. Coffee or tea?”

“Tea thanks.” It would take the man longer to get and give Watson the time he needed.

Lestrade’s back disappearing through the door was his cue. Files splayed under John’s fingers, displaying case numbers and names in bland Calibri till they alighted on the right one.

Sherlock scanned the information faster than Watson could turn the pages. Thirty seconds later the entire content of the file was safely in the detective’s memory palace and everything was exactly how Greg had left it, except for John. Lestrade had come back to an empty office and a barely legible apology note.

* * *

 

Minutes ticked by, Sherlock pacing back and forth looking for all intensive purposes like a caged beast. John knew it was coming. The man was way to on edge. Whenever Sherlock was on edge, John paid the price.

“Get out.”

“What?”

Pinpoints glared into Watson’s soul. If his friend were still of flesh and blood he would have been on a bender of nicotine patches. But sadly the only outlet for Sherlock’s frustration was anger, which was currently directed towards John. “Get out. I need to think and you are far too…distracting. Don’t go far. I might need you.”

Irritation roiled in his stomach next to a sickening feeling of familiarity. “So what am I supposed to do? Wait outside for god knows how long in the off chance that you **_might_** need me?”

“Precisely.”

John Watson was never more frustrated and irked at something intangible in his life. Quarreling with his flatmate didn’t seem nearly as appealing when he knew the endgame could never again be as simple as a swift punch to the face.

“Then I’ll just be outside then. Trying not to look crazy waiting for a ghost to allow me permission back into my own bloody flat!”

The slammed door was a bit childish on his end, but it was the only weapon left in John’s arsenal against his spiraling sanity.

* * *

 

Tea stained blue eyes glanced at his wristwatch for the 413th time as John is passed by a neighbor’s returning trip from the market. Watson hoped he didn’t look half as crazy as he felt, looking up at his flat every half minute to check if he was allowed back in. It wasn’t as if Sherlock could just text when he was lifting the ban on ‘distracting individuals’ (not as if the bastard bothered to do it when he was alive either.)

“Oh.” The soft voice snagged John’s head, jerking it to the source.

Indignation was quickly overshadowed by mortification. “Mrs. Hudson. I was…just- out… out for a walk.”

“It’s ok dear. I know.” A frail hand settled to John’s chest, giving the sweater swathed flesh a gentle and loving couple of pats before she tottered off.

Streams of thoughts crashed through John’s mind, rushing through all the possible things Mrs. Hudson could be thinking about him. None of them sounded good. He had waited long enough, Sherlock be damned if he wasn’t ready.

All his gumption quickly fizzled out when he reached the landing. Hesitantly creaking open the door John edged his way through it and was met with utter silence.

The lithe figure of the intangible detective was sprawled across the couch. The worn olive leather refusing to give under his body, it was surreal and yet a further reminder that the Holmes’ set was broken.

“I expected you back hours ago.” A pale hand waved through the air, adding classic Sherlock flair to his words. If it hadn’t been for Sherlock moving, John could have stayed there forever, trapped in his world of small comforts. Unfortunately, Sherlock was a very large collection of bad words in addition to being amazing.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just assumed you knew.”

Irate curses were poised to burst from his mouth, but only laughter bubbled out; the tail end of which spun into relief. Sherlock being obstinate and riling John till he reached the edge, it felt normal. Felt like his home was never broken in the first place. At a moment’s notice they could be rushing through the streets of London chasing after murderers, but that too melted away as he focused on the unnatural glide of phantom feet pushing through the arm of the couch.

John sighed out the very last bit of content joy he had. No matter how much he wished for it to not be so, things were different. Sherlock wasn’t back, only a shadow of him remained; and John didn’t mind living in it. “Got any solid leads?”

* * *

 

{21st of July, London Street Corner.}

Not even the steady drizzle could dampen Watson’s anticipation while figures filed past, undeterred by the misty rain cloaking the city. It was just enough to soak through his white jumper without piercing the warmth of his excitement while everyone else remained just this side of being miserable.

Instruction cloaked in a low inky voice played on repeat along his cerebral cortex.

‘Wait at the corner of Dorset and Chiltern. Wait for the signal. Wait. Wait. Wait.’

He was supposed to stay till Sherlock came into view tailing their suspect and to look inconspicuous until he received the signal. ‘One of his best abilities’ as Sherlock put it.

An empty coffee cup rose to his lips as an afterthought, miming the action of drinking the hot liquid to further enshroud himself in anonymity.  Easily missed as well as forgotten. Just some poor sod stood up in the rain who hasn’t yet gotten the message.

A man of easy height and the air of importance stormed through the gloom. Bodies parted before him lest they risk being forcibly brushed aside. In his wake a familiar flash of heavy grey flowed unseen at his back.

John pulled himself through the dregs of rain, head tucked down as if to shield himself from the unfortunate weather, keeping his target in sight. It was an easy twenty paces to the guy, decreasing with each hurried step.

A trip, expertly not over-exaggerated collided both of them, hard. An exchange of angry words and hurried apologies saw them drifting away from each other. But John was carrying a little something extra back with him all the way to the flat.

* * *

 

A symphony of pilfered pocket evidence hitting the chemical stained table filled the kitchen. Pick pocketing had been one of the first handful of skills Sherlock had hammered into the once ramrod straight doctor, along with lock picking and stalking.

Among two pence and a set of house keys, (which was extremely unfortunate for their prime suspect) was a matchbook from the Bedford Tavern , two crumpled receipts, and a water ruined number scribbled onto a napkin.

Clues were already piling up. Sherlock an invested observer as John rifled through the case file.

“You already have this figured out don’t you? You just want to watch me struggle through it on my own.”

A Cheshire grin cracked o pen Sherlock’s lips. “So what if I was? I’m leaving all the fun parts to you.  Your first real solo case.  How do you like it so far?”

John rubbed out his eyes till he was nearly blind.  The swirling blackness lasting long after he was done. “It’s tiresome. It’s like all the information is there. I just can’t quite _reach_ it.”

“I could help. If you want. Though you might not like the outcome.”

“I swear, if you come at me with a ladder I will personally tell Anderson you valued his opinion more than any other officer at the met.”

The look he got was well worth the threat.

“I had no intention of doing so. I merely wished to extend my abilities.”

 “Fine. Fine. Extend away.”

Long fingers extend into John’s brow, phasing through the skin as if searching for something.

“What are yo- **AAAAHHHHHHHH!**

John is assaulted with information as if it’s being shoved into his brain faster than his thoughts can keep up.

“John! What’s wrong?” Concern was a rare shade on Sherlock’s voice, it made him sound uncertain and childish.

The room pulsed and pounded into his retinas. Watson wanted to tear his eyes out just so he could reach into the brain matter behind the thin wall of bone and rip the pain from his cortex.

“Feels like my head! Going to explode! What’s going on!?”

A rush of words ejaculated from Sherlock’s mouth, his crane-fly like hands dancing around the doctor’s head. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t take into account the differences in our intellect. I sometimes forget that you are merely a conductor of brilliance.”

Somehow through the scalding pain John managed to radiate angry and indignant looks.

“Oh you know what I mean. Here,” Short nails shaved away bits of the gift safely tucked away in John’s frontal lobe, “that should make it more tolerable.”

A shuddering gasp rattled through the small doctor’s chest as the internal thoughts and information being crammed into his brain slowly ebbed away and eased down. When John opened his eyes all that was left of the blinding pain was a sporadic dull throb.

Hazy dots float just out of reach. The myodesopsia sharpening on the brink of his vision into burred white squiggles.

“Huh? Clever? Arrogant. Liar?” White words materialized and dissipated nearly faster than John could read them. Some useful, most not passed by in a snowstorm of information. Everything that Holmes’ would have gathered from the seemingly unimportant pocket rubbish was being listed out for him to see.

“Fascinating! How am I doing that?!” His tone edging on the accusatory still held onto the soft amazement usually reserved for telling Sherlock how brilliant he was. Though the wrinkles of unease made the detective choose a note of placation instead of boasting when he explained.

“You wouldn’t have accepted help even if I offered. So I thought I would give you a front row seat.”

John reached out, hand ghosting through the little words as they danced around objects.

“Christ. Is this what you see?”

“Yes.”

“All the time?”

“Yes John, you’re being redundant.”

“Take it back.”

“No, you know good and well that I will not answer the same question twice-“

A loud crash bounced off the pockmarked wallpaper moments before John even registered it as his own fist planting tremendously hard against the fragile table. “NO! Not, not the words… Take back the- This!” John stabbed his forehead repeatedly with a finger before spouting off again. “This thing, whatever you call it! Just…take it back.”

Hurt and confusion stitched itself between Sherlock’s brows. “Why? I thought-“

“No- you didn’t. I don’t want this. I don’t want you to give me this so I don’t need you. I enjoy helping. All the hard bits. That’s you. The dashing about and running blindly into danger while I follow. It’s how we work, how all of this works. Just…just take it back.” The please wasn’t there, but the word was palpable and lingered until Sherlock sweep a hand through the other’s mind, sweeping up everything he had left behind.

Sorrow, Grief, and Affection stood out among a myriad of information that he had no business knowing. Heterochromic eyes pleaded a sad apology before he dissolved along with the pallid words surrounding him. Screaming chased away the last of Sherlock’s misty form; A scream that devolved into a gut wrenching and broken cry that he was glad Sherlock could no longer hear.

* * *

 

{22nd of July, 221B Baker St.}

Light wheedled its way under John’s lashes, his lids screwing tighter but the damage had already been done. He could no longer ignore the sun poking him insistently in the retinas. Blurry eyes adjusted slowly to the room where he had once again made up residence on the old leather couch. He wasn’t alone.

De je vu flooded John’s senses making his insides ache.

 An impossibly tall figure stood at the window cloaked in water worn grey and longing. Stray curls caught the light without casting any shadow. Lithe arms minutely moving unseen at the table near the sill. He saw what incorporeal hands were desperately trying to touch. But yesterday’s outburst stayed his tongue.

The Stradivarius had sat where it had been last abandoned by its owner’s hand and hadn’t been touched since.

Sherlock didn’t even look towards the creak of leather, nor did he acknowledge the sad voice calling his name. When hands carefully plucked the instrument from its perch he gained the detective’s attention.

John used to play the fiddle back in his college days, his father had played it, taught him how to carve a tune from the rudimentary instrument. It was nothing like the beautifully curved violin nestled in his grip. He heard no complaints, no shouts of disapproval, so John continued.

Ill-timed notes are swept off the strings in a mockery of anything resembling music. Nothing is said between the two as Sherlock settles behind the impromptu musician, settling his arms around him and sliding hands into John’s. John feels his unpracticed and sloppy noted tighten into the graceful and beautiful composition that only Sherlock could pull from the finicky resin.

John feels his fingers tingle with warmth from a presence that isn’t his own. Salted drops crawl down his cheeks at the familiar music vibrating through the flat. The track isn’t stopped by a ghostly cheek attempting to stem the flow so the melody wouldn’t have to end.

Words layered over candy wrappers spill from John’s lips.

“I missed this more than you’ll ever know.”

“I know John. I know.”

Sherlock hugged John tight as the violin drops from fingers shaking too much to hold their grasp. That small declaration only makes the doctor’s tired form wrack with heavy sobs. Gentle hands rub up arms and softly sooth, tightening the man’s hold on reality. Being held tight.

* * *

 

 {15th of June, 2012.}

The thin din of muttering voices punctuated by barked orders had long since faded into background static to Lestrade’s ears. Anderson had to wave several times before his commanding officer’s eyes eventually focused on him.

“Hey. You were supposed to be out of here 20 minutes ago. I thought you had somewhere important to be.”

An exhausted sigh was muffled behind hands scrubbing the daydream off the DI’s face. “You’re right. I’m going to see John. You want to join me?”

Anderson rubbed at the back of his neck, telling him an excuse he already knew too well. Since the younger Holmes’s death, Anderson hasn’t had the heart to go visit John. But it always ended the same way, to ‘please tell John that he gives his best wishes’.

There is little left to say as Lestrade packs up and leaves. The whole force knows where he is going. One by one saying little snippets to him as he passes, all containing well wishes and encouraging words for their little doctor friend.

It takes the usual amount of time to drive from the met to the large mansion style building. Red brick and cheery flowers only do so much to lighten the depressing atmosphere as DI Lestrade hands his keys over to the valet.

Every step towards the red bricked building gets harder until he can pass the large sign.

**BETHLEM ROYAL PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL**

It was the best place in all of England. Mycroft paid for everything John Watson needed after his brother’s death, had promised Sherlock that if anything happened to him, John would be looked after. Even this place had a substantial donation from the elder Holmes to do everything they could to make the friendly doctor better. But medications and therapy could only do so much.

After Sherlock’s death there was nothing anyone could do. The doctors said it was schizophrenia brought on by delayed trauma and severe depression. Everything had been normal at first, well as normal as a hole brought on by disaster could be. But things got worse till they couldn’t be ignored anymore.  It had nearly killed Mrs. Hudson to find John like she had; Covered in blood from the elbows down on the couch.

“Your badge sir.” The woman at the desk didn’t even ask to see ID, she knew Lestrade was there like clockwork every two weeks. A burly man dressed all in white with a pocket full of sedatives housed in needles whisked him down the maze like hallways to a single door on the top floor.

Dr. John Watson

The name on the permanently affixed plate rests over a plexiglass rectangle and Greg smiles at his friend through it, waiting patiently for the large fellow to open the door.

When it swings open he’s ushered inside and locked in for privacy. “Hi John. It’s a nice day outside.”

John is unresponsive as Lestrade continues on into small talk of their latest arrest, relaying well wishes from everyone at the Met and Bart’s. It hurts him to see his friend so silent and staring blankly at the wall. He knew it was for John’s own good. But it still hurt to see it. It was better than the alternative. John had to be kept in isolation and drugged to a near catatonic state because anytime he wasn’t John would lash out against doctors and patients alike yelling Moriarty and screaming in gut wrenching agony for his best friend.

Greg placed a newspaper on the high quality industrial cotton sheets. “We got a weird one the other day. A bloke who lives alone with his two birds was found dead in a locked house.” He laughed sadly and shook his head. “This would probably be the time Sherlock would call me an idiot and say something along the lines of ‘the bird did it’ and he would be right and make the entire force feel like incompetent idiots.” Laughter died slowly in his mouth. “Despite it all, you were the only one who could make him manageable. Likable even.”

A hand cards through greying hair and Greg checks the straps keeping John’s arms hugged tightly around his body in a perpetual hug. Makes sure they aren’t too tight. He wants John to be comfortable. And John looks ok, mildly happy even.  The doctor’s shoulder dips under Lestrade’s hand in a gentle pat before he bangs twice on the door to signal his leave.  Whatever John is thinking about is at least making him happier than the Inspector has ever seen before, and even as it pains him to see John locked up in here, it’s better than watching the kind man shatter to pieces beneath his grief.

The door slams behind Lestrade. The echoes lingering behind in the painfully white and empty room twist and turn into words whispered in John’s ear, “ _The game is on_.”


End file.
